


standing, by the wall

by aeridi0nis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, First War with Voldemort, Friends to Lovers, Gay Sirius Black, Getting Together, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Remus Lupin, M/M, Marauders, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Marauders Friendship (Harry Potter), Remus Lupin Needs a Hug, Sad Sirius Black, Sirius Black & James Potter Friendship, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin Angst, shockingly there is no happy ending, the first half is happy tho!!, u can just read that and pretend it ends there xx
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:14:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29044422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeridi0nis/pseuds/aeridi0nis
Summary: “There are lots of ways to love people,” Remus points out. It’s even more horrific, hearing the word repeated back to him. “You love James, don’t you? And Peter?”“Well, yeah. But you’re different.”***Sirius is sixteen when he tells Remus he loves him.He is twenty-one when Remus leaves.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 7
Kudos: 41





	standing, by the wall

**Author's Note:**

> i had a really long stretch of writing loads of stuff, and deciding halfway through that its actually shit and the plot doesnt work, but this one is kinda simple and..idk? i hope its good, i hope you like it! I did maths to try to and get this accurate, so if that doesnt indicate dedication what will. having said that, i did MATHS to try and get this accurate, so there's a possibility its wrong and things are a bit off. im pretty sure the timings for the first war timeline are off but id have to do a lot of fiddling around to get it to work perfectly, so hopefully it's still alright. either way, enjoy! again, thank u to everyone who interacts (esp ppl who comments) its what motivates me to get out of those bad stretches :) extra big (covid-safe) kiss for u!!
> 
> songs!  
> heroes - david bowie (gives the fic its name :) )  
> ivy - frank ocean  
> do not wait - wallows

_though nothing, nothing will keep us together_

***

_1975_

Sirius is sixteen when he tells Remus that he loves him.

He’s really not a ponce, contrary to whatever James will say ( _“Do you know how long he spends on his hair in the morning? Mm, yeah, I rest my case,”)_ , but when he pictures himself doing it – and he does picture it, embarrassingly often – it’s night. They’re up at the astronomy tower, and there are stars, because up in the Scottish mountains there’s always going to be stars. That’s why it isn’t poncy, to picture the stars – there’s always stars. It’s just factual, he’s just being detailed. And if he pictures them a little brighter, a little more beautiful, it’s purely coincidental.

He tells him very clearly; he says all the clever, charming things a person is supposed to say, nothing clings to the back of his throat, he doesn’t stumble. He’s very brave, this pictured-Sirius, and somehow while he’s saying it all, he’s still very cool. Up at the astronomy tower, Remus responds accordingly to the braveness, and that’s when Sirius stops picturing the stars, because even with his surprisingly limited experience he knows that people are supposed to close their eyes when they kiss. Maybe the stars disappear, if no one’s there to see them. It’s only a picture; nothing’s real.

When Sirius – real-Sirius – actually does tell Remus, they aren’t up at the astronomy tower, and he can’t see the stars. At the time, it doesn’t seem to matter, because Remus is unconscious. That’s exactly why he does it when he does, because although pictured-Sirius is brave, when real-Sirius tried to follow his lead, he comes to the realization that the things pictured-Sirius says are incredibly bloody poncy when they’re said anywhere other than in his head.

It isn’t that Remus’ transformations necessarily get _worse_ as he gets older, it’s that the more he has to do it, the more his body has to take. The way he explains it to his friends when he returns to the common room limping, and they start refusing to let him carry his own bag, is that if someone was to punch you twenty times, it’s not that the twenty-first punch is necessarily any worse than the ones before, it’s that overall, you’re worse off after twenty-one punches than you are after twenty. He says it with a smile. James decides this makes sense, but he assures him that once they get _operation: animagi_ down – which is any day now, apparently, in both the sense that he _feels_ that they’re close, and also in the secret sense that he’s really got no idea how it’s going and so it could literally be any day at all – the transformations won’t be as bad. Remus shrugs and nods, but Sirius frowns. That doesn’t fix things for right now, he thinks. He wants to do something that’ll make it more bearable for right now. He’s about to ask, but before he can James jumps at him, tackling him to the floor, and begins a game of who-can-land-twenty-one-punches-on-the-other-person-first. Sirius _should_ win, but official game umpire Peter Pettigrew has the nerve to side with James that a slap can’t be counted as a punch. It’s alright though, because in round two James’ glasses break. Idiot.

Sirius doesn’t tell anyone except Madam Pomfrey that he starts visiting Remus earlier the day after the moon. So early that he’s there before Remus wakes up. In fact, he only tells Pomfrey because he hasn’t got much of a choice, and he doesn’t _tell_ so much as he _begs: I promise I’ll be quiet. It’ll only be me._ Fortunately, it seems she’s got a soft spot for him. Or, admittedly more probably, she’s got a soft spot for Remus and likes the idea of someone being there when he wakes up. He tells a lie as well, says Remus said he could, if she’ll allow it. Perhaps James and Peter believe him, at first, when he says he’s just going down to breakfast earlier, but eventually he reckons they must realize what he’s doing. If they do, they don’t say anything, and he’s glad. This is a way to help Remus now, he reasons with himself. It’s not much, but maybe he doesn’t want to wake up alone.

So he goes, and as soon as Madam Pomfrey has done what she can and Remus is in a bed – always the same one, at the end – she lets Sirius in, and he pulls up a chair and waits. Sometimes it’s hours, and he brings his homework, or Remus’, and does it in his lap. Sometimes he just watches Remus sleep, the sun rising in his hair, and tells himself that none of this is creepy. And then, once Remus is awake, he fills him in on what he’s missed, gives him the notes from the classes he was absent from. He brings a deck of exploding snap cards in one time, though Madam Pomfrey sees to it that that’s a short-lived endeavor. The deal Sirius ultimately strikes with her is that he’s allowed to stay, as long as in return he watches Remus for any signs of discomfort while he’s asleep and notifies her immediately. As if she’d have to ask.

“Anything for you, Poppy,” he teases, grinning, even though they both know it’s for Remus.

“Watch it, Mr Black,” she shoots back, quirking an eyebrow. “Now, if you’re going to be here this early, _do_ make yourself useful, and fetch me a clean rag. There should be some by the bed opposite, ah, there we go.”

It’s awkward, though, the very first time Remus wakes up to find Sirius already there. He looks confused, and drowsy, but he doesn’t look weirded out, so there’s that. “Why’re you here?” He asks, voice hoarse, and Sirius notes that it sounds a little slurred; he’s never this drugged up by the time she usually lets them see him. They can only come in once he’s awake, those are the rules. Remus slept with half his face in the pillow, and now his hair is sticking up at all angles like James’, the first of the sunlight threading through it. He squints at Sirius through his eyelashes. There’s something uninhibited about him, here. There are no sharp lines, it all bleeds into everything else. Maybe it’s the medicine. Sirius feels like he’s the one who took it.

_Well, Sirius? It’s a good question. Why are you here?_

He tells himself it’s nothing to do with being in love with him. “I thought you wouldn’t want to wake up alone, maybe,” Sirius says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Must be boring.”

The quiet in the wing feels very fragile; it’s teetering on a knife edge – the pin’s been dropped, but it hasn’t yet hit the ground. A breath sucked in, not yet released. Speaking feels heavy, and a little clumsy. The light is thick as honey and it’s touching Remus in a way that makes Sirius jealous, and everything feels like the word _between._ Sirius being here is time he’s stolen; a little bit of Remus that he’s stolen. Other people don’t get to see this.

_Stolen. Remus didn’t say you could be here. Self-indulgent prick._

He feels guilty, all of a sudden, so he leans forward and asks “do you want me to go?” His knees are pressed against the bed frame, and Remus shakes his head into his pillow a little, eyes closed.

“S’nice,” he mumbles. “Thanks.”

“I can be here when you wake up next time,” Sirius offers, but it comes out raised at the end. Slanted, like a question. Something he’s asking permission for. There isn’t an answer. He shifts in his seat and the movement makes Remus’ brow furrow, even though from where Sirius is sat his eyes still look closed. Sirius thinks perhaps he’s mistaken the sound for him leaving.

“You’re goin’?” Remus mutters.

“I can stay,” Sirius blurts. He says it very quickly. He sounds urgent.

“You want to?”

“Yeah, if you’d like. Feel alright?”

Remus makes a sound between ‘mhm’ and ‘yeah’ before shifting onto his other side and drifting back to sleep. Sirius thinks he might not even remember their conversation, and Remus never mentions it. Still, he’s there for the morning after the next moon, and if Remus doesn’t remember, he still doesn’t ask why he’s there.

In fact, Sirius swears he smiles. Maybe it’s the medicine.

And then one morning, he just says it. There, in the empty hospital wing, while Remus is asleep. He’s cut through his left eyebrow in the night, and it’ll scar. Outside, there’s a blush on the horizon, and it’s the same type of the quiet as always and Sirius gets it into his head that because it feels like _between,_ it really is. He could say anything here, and no one’s awake or around to hear it, and things can continue as normal when life resumes. There’s an hourglass, and someone’s cupping their palm beneath the trickling sand, and time won’t proceed until they tip the grains onto the floor, rendering the second spent.

Remus is asleep, but it doesn’t look peaceful. Like a stone breaking water, there are lines of tension on his face, creases between his eyebrows. He’s in pain. Sirius watches the rise and fall of his chest between the white sheet, and it’s jagged. Torn.

He knows he needs to go and get Madam Pomfrey. Sirius scoots his chair back, grimacing at the loud screech it makes against the flagstones, and turns to leave. It’s only when he has his back to Remus that something brushes his wrist, clutching at it. Remus’ hand is cold.

Maybe Remus just changed position in his sleep. Maybe he’s stretching. _Maybe_ he’s reaching out for Sirius. It could be all three of these things, and it also could very well be none of them. But they’re between realities, and someone’s cupping the sand, and it’s whatever he wants.

And for a moment, Sirius just stands there, looking down at him. He brushes the hair from Remus’ forehead, gently, and it feels very selfish, what he’s doing right now.

“I love you, Moony,” he whispers, because he knows Remus is asleep. “I love you, and I probably make it really bloody obvious, don’t I? I don’t mean to. It doesn’t need to mean anything, you don’t need to worry about any of it. I’m sorry. Fuck. _S_ _hit,_ I’m sorry.”

There is no such thing as _between._ Just because people pretend that time stops, it doesn’t mean it really does. That’s just a made-up thing. Really, time is not an hourglass and there is no one cupping anything and so when Remus’ eyes open, wide, and find his, it’s not even a comfort to think he might be completely out of it. Sirius suddenly feels like everything he’s said very much matters. Fucking hell, he’s been stupid.

Sirius takes a few clumsy steps backwards, retracting his hand as though he’s burned it. “I, uh, I’ll just—I’ll just go and—” and he’s spinning on his heel in search of Madam Pomfrey. He assumes she tends to Remus, and that he’s alright. He doesn’t know for sure, because he finds her, and then he leaves.

***

“You’re avoiding me,” Remus says. It isn’t a question. Sirius doesn’t get away with it for long; Remus is discharged that afternoon, and despite Sirius’ best efforts, by that evening he catches Sirius alone in a classroom on the third floor. He forgot about the map. Idiot.

Sirius enjoys being able to read people. He prides himself on knowing the people around him, knowing what they’ll do before they do it, and for the most part he does – James, for instance, is an open book, especially for Sirius, who’s as good as his brother. James is like his fifth limb; they finish each other’s sentences. He makes no effort to hide what he’s thinking or feeling, and people like him for that. Sirius likes him for that. Peter, too, is easy. He’s a nervous little sod, and he’ll make it known with all his worrying and fidgeting. Hard time keeping secrets from his friends, hard time saying no. If James says something, Peter will back it up, because he’s content with being a follower. It’s something like loyalty, in a different colour. He’s a good friend that way.

One of the things that initially intrigued Sirius about Remus was that for the life of him, he couldn’t read him. He had thought that’d go away when the whole werewolf thing came out, because there it was: Remus’ reason for keeping his cards close to his chest. Fair enough, really, except it never did. He still doesn’t give anything away that he doesn’t want to, not by his face – you have to wait for him to say the things that he wants to say. Sirius knows Remus, but only because Remus lets him. He has a funny way of controlling situations, like that. He isn’t like any teenager Sirius has ever met before.

Which is why it totally throws him off when Remus finds him that evening, in the empty classroom, and he looks genuinely hurt. He looks quite clearly upset. _You’re avoiding me,_ is the first thing he says, when he turns up in the doorway but doesn’t come closer. The sun’s already set; it’s December, so you don’t get much light, but the waning moon throws something silver into the room, throwing up slender shadows. If it was someone else talking, it seems like the type of statement they might follow up with _why?_ But Remus doesn’t. He just stares at Sirius, who’s sprawled out over one of the stone windowsills. He hadn’t really been doing his Transfiguration homework; he was just staring at the book until the words dissolved into squiggly little threads of black across the page. He looks up from it when he sees Remus, but he doesn’t close it. That would make things too obvious.

“I’m not,” he replies, unconvincing. They’re on opposite sides of the room, but he doesn’t need to raise his voice. Bloody good acoustics, in a castle. Remus scratches absently at a scar peeking out from the sleeve of his jumper, catches the bad habit and stuffs his fists into his pockets.

“Who _are_ you avoiding, then?” He presses.

And here Sirius bristles a little, tips his chin up and straightens where he’s sat. He feels rather like a little child, caught doing something they shouldn’t be but denying it anyway. “Who says I’m avoiding anyone?” They could do this all day, if Remus wasn’t too sensible for it. _Yes you are, no I’m not, yes you are._ Sirius would be up for it, that sort of argument. He'd prefer that to nothing at all.

But Remus sighs; the way he sighs all the time, like he’s perpetually exhausted. This is a deliberate mood Sirius puts himself in sometimes, this difficulty, and Remus has never had much energy for it. He starts forward, a jerkiness to his movements still as he weaves round the room to the desk closest to Sirius’ window and perches on it, hands still pocketed. They’re very close, now. Sirius could reach out and touch him (he won’t). Remus looks at Sirius hopelessly, and Sirius almost stares back. He couldn’t see it before, but now, in the light, he can: that eyebrow scar, new and white. It’s the same sort of paleness as the moon that gave him it, now that it already looks days old. Sirius finds it easier to look at than Remus’ eyes.

“I don’t want you to stop coming,” Remus admits quietly, and it’s surprising, hearing something like that from him. Remus doesn’t talk about what he wants very often. Or maybe he just never wants that much, which surely makes it even more important that he _doesn’t want Sirius to stop coming._ “In the..when you come in the mornings. I’d like for you to keep coming. If you want to.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t come anymore,” Sirius replies, although that had been the plan. Anyway, he had assumed Remus wouldn’t want him there, wouldn’t want to be alone with him, if he really had heard all the stupid things Sirius had said. Remus nods, though, as if that’s something he didn’t know, but should’ve.

“Alright. Good. I mean, you don’t have to, if you don’t want to. You could just come when Peter and James do, I’m sure you must have to get up awfully early, and—”

“I don’t mind it, honest,” Sirius interrupts. The plan wasn’t to make Remus feel like a burden, that isn’t fair. “S’my choice to come, and I do.”

Remus nods again, slower, and glances around the empty classroom as if looking for something. He peers at the window behind Sirius, and his eyes must snag the moon, because he stares at something above Sirius’ head for so long that Sirius considers asking if that’s all he came here to say. If they’re done here.

“I thought, maybe,” Remus begins again, eyes dropping back to Sirius. He breaks the silence so suddenly that it almost makes Sirius jump. “You wouldn’t want to come again, after this morning. I know you didn’t want me to hear that.”

Ah, so he did hear it. And now they’re actually going to have this conversation. Bloody brilliant. Perhaps Sirius can still play it off, casual-like, and Remus’ll drop it. He sets the book down, forces himself to shrug. “Yeah, well, it was about you, to be fair. Didn’t plan on saying it, but I did. Nothing needs to change. It’s not important, alright?”

“It seemed important,” Remus argues. “You ran away.”

“I didn’t _run away,_ ” Sirius snaps, with more spite than he intended, and now he’s lost his temper. Great. They’ve always felt like the same thing to him, anger and fear. He wonders if that’s the case for everyone.

Remus doesn’t even blink. “What did you mean by it?”

The laughter is unexpected; it sorts of bubbles up from somewhere low in his stomach, and before he knows it Sirius is chuckling, quietly. It’s a little bit bitter, and it’s mainly because he’s fucked, because he knows he isn’t going to lie. He could, but he’s not going to. He probably should, too. Would Remus even believe him, if he lied?

“What’d you think?” Sirius mutters, craning his head back to rest it against the cold stone wall, closing his eyes for a moment. If he’s going to ruin anything, at least he’s going to do it properly, fully. He doesn’t do things by halves. Might as well wreck it all. “I meant it. Can’t pretend I didn’t, cause I did. But I’m not – things don’t have to be weird. I’m sorry I said anything at all.”

“There are lots of ways to love people,” Remus points out. It’s even more horrific, hearing the word repeated back to him. “You love James, don’t you? And Peter?”

“Well, yeah. But you’re different.”

Remus tips his head to the side, thinking, like he’s a teacher trying to draw out a more developed answer from a student. “Why?” He asks, as though he’s Professor Binns, and he wants to know _why_ the gargoyle strike in 1911 was a political inevitability. Fucked if Sirius knows.

Sirius shrugs again, and now it’s his turn to sigh. “Just are. I didn't get to choose.” He shifts, turns his head so he’s facing Remus fully again. “I won’t be weird around you, if you aren’t weird around me. We can forget I ever said anything.”

Remus frowns, and for a moment there Sirius is scared that he won’t be content with moving on as normal, that he’ll want to stay as far away from him as possible now. It’s irrational, because he knows that even if he wanted to, Remus wouldn’t do that. He never cared that Sirius was gay, and he’s known that for a while now. Remus just wouldn’t do something like that. It’s just his head, making things up.

That doesn’t mean he expects it though, when Remus says, “I don’t want to forget about it, though. It’s the same for me.”

Yeah, now Sirius is sitting upright.

“What?” And it comes out embarrassingly high pitched. Remus is looking down at his lap, and Sirius can only see the bottom half of his face for the fringe that falls down over his eyes. He’s got nice hair, Sirius thinks. It’s tea-coloured, and it suits him.

“If you meant it,” Remus says, addressing the floor. “I do too, what you said, about, erm. I feel the same way you do, about you, and it’s different for me, too, not like Peter or James, like you said. It’s been that way for a while now, and I wasn’t going to say anything, but if you—”

“I meant it,” Sirius interrupts. His heart is lodged in his throat, thudding frantically, and it inches higher when Remus looks up and smiles lopsidedly. Sirius has got no idea if the stars are any more beautiful than usual right now, because he can’t see them. You couldn’t pay him to give a shit, frankly. He can see Remus’ freckles though. “I’ve meant it for ages,” Sirius says again. “Third year.”

How long have they wasted, then?

“You should’ve told me,” Sirius whispers. “Why didn’t you bloody tell me?”

Remus shrugs. “I didn’t think there was much point. It isn’t…people like me aren’t supposed to do that sort of thing, typically. Dating. It’d come with a lot of problems, so I just never thought about it. It isn’t really something I need to worry about, and I’m alright with that. Besides,” he continues, corner of his lips twitching upwards. “I think there are plenty of better-looking suitors round here for you. Probably human, too, though granted I’m not sure how many are gay..”

“I’m not alright with that,” Sirius replies determinedly, brow furrowed. “You deserve all the things that everyone else does. I don’t care, you do, what does it matter if you’ve – if you’ve got a problem? You’re just like everyone else. Shit, you’re _better_ than everyone else. You deserve the things that you want.”

“Alright.” Remus smiles properly now, even if he still sounds hesitant. Not entirely convinced, but Sirius has time to change that.

“So,” Sirius begins, slowly, after a while. “We both, uh..we both. I fancy you and you fancy me.” He’s too scared to say _love_ again, even if it’s true, at least for him. Remus could call this off any second.

“I fancy you and you fancy me,” Remus repeats, before adding “a lot.”

A lot. Remus fancies Sirius _a lot._

“We don’t need to tell anyone. Not even James and Peter. Not yet,” Remus reasons.

Tell anyone what? There’s a _what?_ There’s a _yet?_ There’s going to be a _later,_ for them? Sirius feels sort of dizzy. He feels like he’s leaned too far back in his chair, and it’s tipping over but he hasn’t hit the ground yet, so everything’s light, all flipped upside down. He feels delirious. He feels _between._ That has to be real, he thinks, now, because there’s just no way time is moving for anyone else right now.

“Can I kiss you?” Someone asks. Sirius asks. It’s been asked, that’s all, and not by Remus. He knows it isn’t Remus who asks, because it’s Remus who answers, “yeah, if you’d like”. Sirius laughs again, not bitterly this time, because Remus is ridiculous. He’s stupider than Sirius is. They’re so fucking stupid.

It’s a good kiss. As is the second one. And the fifth.

They’ve got five years and a bit, give or take, until Sirius’ chair hits the ground.

***

_August 1981_

“I’m just saying,” James says, pausing as he readjusts his glasses and drags a hand down his face, “Not to mention any Order information in front of him anymore. You say he doesn’t tell you things? Don’t tell him things either, you don’t need to. It’s just a precaution, maybe it’ll prove us wrong, but we…I can’t be too safe anymore, Pads, you know that. I have to think about Harry now, as well.”

It’s dark out, ink-blot sky, and they’re outside the Order headquarters, propped up against the wall of the house. Sirius is grateful for the dark; he doesn’t want to see James’ face any clearer than this, right now. The rest of the Order – what’s left of them, that is – are still inside.

Except Remus. Nobody seems to have any idea where Remus is, least of all Sirius. Whether he likes it or not, that’s a fact.

“I just can’t imagine it being him, Prongs.”

“Of course you can’t – because you, you two are, y’know…of course you can’t. But who does it leave, Sirius? Can you imagine any of them being the spy, either? Genuinely?” James presses, jerking his head towards the house. Sirius shrugs so he doesn’t have to answer, takes another drag of his cigarette and stares out at the dead street. It’s a muggle street, residential and quiet and lined with rather drab terraced houses, and the official line is that the Order meetings are just student house parties. Some party, Sirius thinks. He counts the parked cars that stretch down the side of the road as he breathes out, smoke unfurling before him, writhing. Twelve cars. No motorbikes.

“I don’t want it to be him either,” James sighs, finally, into the dark. “It might not be. But it can’t hurt to be careful, Sirius. And out of all of us, he’s got the most motive, doesn’t he? He’s got the most reason to be pissed off with the ways things are as is. You know that’s true.”

Sirius snaps his head round to face James, glaring, and his cigarette-holding hand drops to his side.

“Oi, you don’t get to use that against him. That isn’t fair, just because he’s a—”

“I’m not _using it against him,_ alright? _That_ isn’t fair, I know you know that you aren’t the only one who cares about Remus—”

“Bloody well feels like it,” Sirius cuts in. It feels childish even as he says it.

“Well you’re not, and you never have been, so sack it. But he’s never bloody here anymore, Sirius. Nobody knows where he’s going, and he’s never bloody here. We can’t dismiss that just because he’s our friend.”

“Brother,” Sirius corrects.

“What?”

“You used to say we were all brothers, back at school.”

It feels like an awfully long time ago.

James stares at him, runs a hand through his hair. Sirius sees the shadows shift against his face and he knows James is smiling. Apologetic. “Right. Yeah, well. To be fair to me, I don’t reckon brothers do the sort of things you two do together. I don’t reckon it’s _legal_ for brothers to do the sort of things you two do together.”

 _Did,_ would be more accurate.

Sirius breathes a laugh that gives way to a cough, anyway. “You been spying, Jamie? Could’ve just asked if you really wanted in, mate.”

He shouldn’t have used the word _spy._ James still laughs, but it’s stiff and it dies quickly, and then Sirius knows he’s thinking of Remus as a traitor again. They look back out onto the street.

“He might just be on missions, James, like he says he is,” Sirius mutters, bringing the cigarette back up to his lips.

“I dunno, Pads…people don’t get sent on missions on their own. Nobody does. He might be out on a mission at first, maybe, but even Dumbledore says he can’t be sure when Remus’ll be returning. Like he hasn’t been told. And who gets sent on missions that last weeks?”

Still, Sirius can’t help but think that if Remus really is the traitor, he’d be _better_ at it, wouldn’t he? He’s a smart bloke. Would he really be so clumsy as to be disappearing constantly? He’s making it so obvious, Sirius thinks.

But where else could he be going?

It’s so obvious.

He doesn’t tell James what he’s thinking. It wouldn’t do any good. “I won’t tell him anything. I won’t bring it up. I still don’t think it’s him, James, I’m telling you that now, but if he doesn’t need to know it, he won’t. That’s all I can do.”

“Good, thank you. It’s just how it has to be, Sirius. You can understand that, yeah? If I thought it was you, I’d be here having this conversation with him.”

That’s a pointless comparison. James would never think it was Sirius. They’re brothers.

“Mhm. And I still love him, alright? You understand that?”

You can love someone and still not trust them. Sirius knows this, because he’s doing it. Those two things aren’t exclusive.

“Yeah, I do, I love him too, Pads. Not the way you do, but you know what I mean. Just…be smart. All I’m saying.” James kicks off the wall, spins round to face Sirius properly. “S’freezing balls. You coming back inside?”

Sirius glances down at his cigarette. “In a minute.”

“Put it out,” James says, following his gaze. “Lily’s bringing Harry round when most of em’ are gone, just for a few hours. I shouldn’t even be here, y’know. Harry’d like to see you, but she won’t like it if you’re smelling of smoke. She thinks you quit when I did.”

“ _I_ certainly never told her I’d quit, so I dunno where she’s got that one from.”

“Yeah, well. I do. Put it out, Mr Godfather. If you aren’t careful,” and here James makes a _tsk_ sound, shaking his head in mock disapproval. “We’ll replace you – reckon Pettigrew’s angling for your job.”

“Mhm, yeah, Harry’d never forgive you. You’d have a mutiny on your hands, just watch. Every kid wants a dog.”

James flashes a grin – a real one – and turns to go, but it’s then that Sirius remembers something. Something he’s been waiting to hear about from James.

“James?”

He turns back. “Yeah?”

“Speaking of, of Wormtail and jobs and all that..have you thought any more about what I said? About, y’know, him? Over me?”

James shoves his glasses further up his nose. “I’d need to talk to Lily.”

Sirius nods, “yeah. Alright. Make sure you do.”

James leaves, goes back inside the house. The house full of people who all think Remus is a dirty rotten traitor.

Sirius could finish the cigarette. He could just spell the scent away, really, and Lily would be none the wiser.

He puts it out. He follows James inside.

***

_October 1981_

“It’s getting harder to defend you.”

Remus looks up from his cup of tea, eyebrows raised. He’s standing on the other side of their kitchen, against the counters. Well, to be accurate, their kitchen is too small to really say it has _sides._ It’s not even a room; there’s no wall to separate it from the living room of the flat. It feels like there are sides right now, though. There’s something that Remus is on the other side of, at least.

“Defend me?”

“Yeah,” Sirius replies, not looking at him. The far out thing about having your own flat is that no one can get on your case about smoking inside, even at six in the morning. He doesn’t even have to open the window, if he doesn’t want to. Godric knows Remus doesn’t feel like he pays enough rent to have a say in anything that goes on here. It isn’t his fault.

Anyway, he’s never bloody here.

“What are you defending me from?” He asks, tipping his head to the side. He’s doing his teacher voice. It’s getting on Sirius’ nerves already.

“Everyone. Our friends. The Order. There’s a spy among us, you know.” He shoots Remus a sideways glance, and he’s met with neutrality. Blankness. As if he’s said something as mundane as _I think it might rain._ Sirius knows he isn’t stupid enough to completely miss the implications of his comment, so why does he looks so fucking unbothered? He wants to know what he’s thinking.

“I do know. And…what, then? Everyone’s decided it’s me?”

“It’s a theory.”

“And you lot? James and Lily and Peter? Are you telling them it’s not?” Remus asks, placing his mug down on the counter, still full. He folds his arms over his jumper – _jumper,_ because at six in the morning, he’s dressed. At five in the morning, he came home, with no notice. After two weeks. With a bruised jaw that he hasn’t got an explanation for.

He’s always dressed to leave.

Sirius turns his head, frowns at him, pushes his free hand through his hair. “James and Peter think it’s you, too. I’m defending you, but like I said, it’s getting harder—”

“I don’t believe you,” Remus cuts in coolly. Perhaps he’s angry, now. Sirius hopes he is. Shit, at least that’d be _something._ “That’s a lie. They wouldn’t, they must know it couldn’t be.”

If there’s one way to strike a nerve in Sirius, it’s to call him a liar. Remus knows that. He’s angry, then. Finally.

“Oh yeah?” Sirius challenges, raising his voice. “I’m lying? When’s the last time you’ve seen them, then? When’s the last time they had you round—”

“—They’re staying hidden—”

“From _who_ , Remus? From what, eh? They don’t _trust_ you anymore. Haven’t you even noticed?” He asks, turning to face Remus fully now, grinding his cigarette butt into the kitchen counter next to him. Remus is standing front of the window, which is closed, and behind him the sun is rising. All blush, for now, but the light it throws is bluish and watery, not rosy. Ice over a river.

There’s dawn in the kitchen too. Realization, settling over Remus’ face. He’s probably thinking back to the last time he was invited round James’. The last time he saw Harry. He’s probably realizing that it was a very long time ago.

“And you?” He asks, quietly. His face isn’t neutral anymore, and Sirius wants to explain that it still hurts him, to see Remus this way. To see him hurt. He wants to explain that he still loves him. He just doesn’t believe him.

“I…I don’t know. If I knew, for sure, that it was you, I wouldn’t still be here. Or you wouldn’t. I don’t know.”

“And when was all this decided? When did this all happen, without anyone saying a word to me? Without me realizing?”

Sirius scoffs. “ _When?_ Remus, it’s not like there’s been a lack of opportunities. _Everything_ happens without you around, _life_ happens without you around. I live here on my own, now, basically; I wake up on my own and go to sleep on my own with fuck all clue where you are, if you’re even alive. Why _wouldn’t_ people suspect you? You aren’t ever at the meetings. You can’t fuck off for two, three weeks at a time, come back and be surprised that people have started asking questions. It’s suspicious: there you go, I’ve said it. It’s suspicious. And I’m still defending you, but I don’t blame the people who aren’t.”

He sighs, as he does ever such a lot, these days. A deep, shoulder-sagging sigh, and his face softens a little, he hopes. “If you would just tell me something, anything, about where you go, Moony—”

“They’re missions,” Remus replies steadily. “You know I can’t discuss it. I don’t ask you to discuss yours.”

_You don’t ask me to discuss anything, actually._

“Mine are normal, it’s different,” Sirius argues, regurgitating everything James has already said to him, even though he’s breaking his promise to him. He said he wouldn’t discuss the Order with Remus anymore, but this is different. James would surely understand, even though deep down Sirius knows he wouldn’t. “They’re standard, a day at most, and they’re always with whatever partner I’m assigned. Nobody else goes on missions alone, Remus. And nobody else goes for weeks on end. It’s only you. You’re a good dueller, a bloody good one, but no one’s _that_ good.”

“I go where Dumbledore asks me to go, and I stick to Moody’s protocol. If you’ve got a problem, take it up with either of them.”

Ah. There it is. Sirius raises an eyebrow. He’s caught Remus in a half-lie, possibly. “I’ve spoken to Dumbledore about it before, actually. Asked him when you’d be back. He never knows, or at least he never tells, except for sometimes when you’re late. Sometimes he says you should be back already.”

Remus shifts his weight slightly. He goes to scratch at the stubble at his jaw but as soon as he does he encounters the bruise there, remembers, and drops his hand back down. Wherever he is when he’s away, he isn’t shaving. “My missions are unpredictable in nature. I don’t always know when I’ll be coming back,” he explains, staring at his shoes as he talks. It feels like a shoddy cover line.

“You’re different when you come back, as well. You know that?”

It’s true. Every time he comes home, thinner and ragged-looking and inexplicably injured in one way or another, he’s a little quieter. He’s drawing back into himself. It reminds Sirius of how he was when they were kids (Merlin, are they old now? Are they not still kids?), before they’d figured out he was a werewolf and all that. He’s always holding something back, reserving something. Scared to let something slip. He would be, Sirius reasons. If he were the spy.

There’s one night, the day he returns from one of his absences, that Sirius goes to stroke his hair without warning, and Remus flinches. They freeze there, for a moment, Sirius’ fingers millimetres from his hair, and then he retracts his hand. That’s never happened before. Sirius is careful to move more slowly after that, and neither of them ever mention it. Remus seems content to pretend it never happened.

Eventually, Sirius just stops touching him.

“I don’t enjoy them,” Remus replies, eyes still downcast. His voice sounds tight. Strained. He’s still holding something back. “I go because I’m asked, it’s what I signed up for. I never realized that meanwhile, you’ve all decided I’m off betraying you.”

“The full moons,” Sirius mutters, and Remus’s gaze snaps back up.

“Hm?”

“You’ve spent full moons away, on _missions,_ ” he begins, infusing the last word with as much scepticism as he can muster. _I’m humouring you, for now,_ he wants to say. _I’m doing you a favour here._ “Where on earth could you be going, where it’s safe for you to be doing that?”

Remus’ eyes narrow. “I make arrangements accordingly, actually. I don’t just let myself loose wherever, kill a few muggles if I fancy it, if that’s what you’re implying. I’ve been doing full moons a hell of a lot longer than you have.”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m just asking. Though I might point out, that ever since this conversation started, you still haven’t outright denied it. Once.”

“Well I’m not the spy, alright? Sorry for the disappointment. But if this is what we’re doing, in the interest of _pointing things out,_ how do I know it isn’t you? How do any of you know it isn’t one of you?”

Sirius blinks at him. He has a point, actually, though he isn’t going to admit that. No one ever seemed to consider for a moment that it could be anyone but Remus. It’d been Peter who raised the point, and James just went with it. It just makes sense, it being Remus.

He’s making it so obvious.

“It isn’t me,” Sirius says. “And it isn’t James, and it isn’t Peter.” He can say this with a little bit of confidence, he reckons. He prides himself on being able to read people, _most_ people. He’d just _know_ , if it was them. He’d be able to feel it. He can read people who haven’t got anything to hide.

“And how do you know that? You just believe them, don’t you? And you believe the rest of them – Frank and Alice and Benjy? Gideon and Fabian? Everyone just _believes_ each other. Apart from me, of course.”

The light is shifting, behind Remus. He’s blocking most of it out. It’s almost gold; sort of orange, subdued where it shines through above Remus, around him. It outlines him, tracing where he’s standing. If Sirius squinted, he could make the details go fuzzy, and Remus would just be a silhouette. He could make Remus disappear, and just keep the outline. The parts of him that bleed into the light, like the top of his head, where his hair looks all honey in the sun. If he stepped out of the light, it’d just be brown.

Honestly, Sirius isn’t sure why he says it. Maybe he’s desperate. Maybe he hopes that if he says it, Remus, with all his reason and logic and sensibility, will discredit it – make him see sense. Sirius just wants to see sense, whatever that is.

“You’ve got a motive.”

Remus’ arms fall to his sides, and something in his jaw tightens. There’s one single second there where he looks a little menacing, but Sirius isn’t scared of him. He’s gone all sharp, though, and for once he’s failing pretty dismally at hiding his anger.

“Excuse me?” It comes out as a whisper, barely.

“Oh come on, Remus, out of any of us, it’s true. You’ve got a motive, you’ve got cause to want change, and that’s what they’re offering, isn’t it? The death eaters? The ministry treats you like shit, you can’t get a job, and it wears on you. So maybe you try your luck with the other side. It’s the most plausible motive out of anyone.”

For a little while, the theory just sits there in their kitchen, occupying the space between them. He might have just worked it out, Sirius realizes. He might have just told Remus’ entire story back to him. Perhaps he’s panicking; he’s been well and truly found out. Sirius watches him, triumphantly. He likes to win.

Maybe Remus’ll kill him. Nothing really seems like it’d feel much of anything right now.

Remus sucks a breath in, eyes trained on Sirius. “So you think,” he says, through gritted teeth, “Because things are difficult for me, I’ve joined Voldemort? And they’ve just welcomed me right in? Me, a half-blood with lycanthropy? That’s what you think of me. Of course it’s the werewolf.”

Sirius shrugs. “Maybe you’re useful. I don’t know what it is you do for them, do I?”

“Half your family are death eaters. It could be you.”

He feels like laughing again. “I think we both know they aren’t my family anymore, Remus. Haven’t been my family for quite some time now. And I know it isn’t me.”

“You’re supposed to know me. You supposed to know me better than them,” and just like that, Sirius watches the anger flood out of Remus again, like a tide receding. It never lasts long, he wishes it’d last longer.

Sirius takes a step forward, towards him, and there really are no sides to this kitchen, because now they’re close enough to touch (though they won’t).

“I’ve only ever known what you wanted me to know, Remus. I know Peter, and I know James. I only know the bits of you that you’ve given me, because _everything_ with you is buried under five fucking layers of secrets and, and resignation and fucking self-loathing. You want me to say I know you too well to think you’d do something like this? I can’t say that, Remus. I’ve got no idea.”

“You _know_ me, Sirius,” Remus presses. He doesn’t look like he’s going to cry, because Remus never cries, but his fists are clenched and his jaw is bruised and his face is blank and nothing about him makes sense. He could be faking all of this. "I don't know what you'd like me to say. This is just how I am."

“If you say so.”

The sun is really bright now, and it makes looking at Remus difficult.

“And I do love you, you know.” It isn’t Remus who says it, so it must be Sirius. His voice sounds strange; detached. It’s never been so easy to say.

“I love you too,” Remus replies dutifully, automatically, quietly. “And that was clearly never going to be anywhere near enough on it’s own.”

“So…so what? That’s it, then? You aren’t even going to fight me?” Sirius asks, raising his eyebrows, and this time he does laugh, cold and incredulous, because Remus is _ridiculous._ He’s so fucking exhausting, trying to get something out of him is so fucking exhausting, because he won’t even react. Sirius wants him to shout. He wants him to be angry again. He wants to see Remus break something, but he won’t, so Sirius has to do it for him. For both of them.

“You aren’t even going to try and convince me? Do you even give a shit? Fucking hell..” he sighs, and it turns into another laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re a fucking coward Remus! Fucking _hell!_ There we go, huh, ‘spose that’s one thing I do know about you. I can’t tell what would make you a bigger one, actually – if you’re lying or if you’re telling the truth. You just let everyone define you, let them decide whatever they want about you, even if it isn’t true, and you’re too much of a fucking _coward_ to ever try and change any of it. Are we just not worth your effort, Remus? Was this all part of the plan? Don’t just look at me, _say_ something, Remus.”

He doesn’t, and Sirius shoves him in the shoulder. Not hard, just enough that Remus takes a step backwards, a stumble. He’s just trying to get Remus to react, for once. He wants Remus to punch him back, break his nose or something, but Remus just stares at him with big eyes. He just looks sad, and defeated.

“Fucking hell. It’s you, then. It actually is you..” Sirius says, eyes widening. He believes himself when he says it.

“I swear it’s not.”

“I don’t believe you anymore. I don’t trust you, how am I supposed to trust you?”

Remus’ eyes drift past Sirius, settling on the front door behind him. “I think I ought to leave.”

“Don’t fucking run away, Remus,” Sirius shoots back. He’s very nearly shouting. “Don’t prove me right. Act like you care for once in your fucking life, maybe. Act like talking to me isn’t a massive bloody inconvenience for you.”

“You’ve already said you don’t trust me, Sirius. Maybe I don't trust you. I don’t think there’s anything left to say. I think…we’ve run our course, you and me,” Remus replies. His voice is soft and his eyes are kind and Sirius doesn’t want to fight him anymore, but Remus is already inching past him, moving towards the door. Sirius spins round to face him again.

“You haven’t got anywhere to go,” Sirius blurts out. He sounds desperate. _You’ve got to stay here, with me._ “You haven’t got anyone.”

Remus smiles, but his hand is already on the door. “I’ll be alright.”

“You’ll go stay with your death eater friends?” He tries being vicious. It works; Remus stops smiling, and he sighs, like he’s disappointed. He always seems so disappointed.

“Goodbye, Sirius.”

“Fuck off, then, if you're going to. Just _fuck off!_ ” He snaps back, pretending his voice doesn’t break as he says it. He doesn’t watch Remus go, instead turning back to the kitchen, but he hears the door close. Remus doesn’t even slam it.

And Sirius is left there, in their kitchen – which he supposes is his kitchen, now – with the window through which the sun has risen very clearly. The day has just started, which feels wrong. He’s not quite sure what to do with himself for a few minutes, and then his eyes fall on the mug of tea Remus left on the counter, full. It’s still lukewarm, he finds, when he picks it up, but it’s too cold to be drinkable anymore. Remus probably still would. He wonders where Remus is, and wherever he is, if he’s as aimless right now as Sirius is.

What's he going to do with all of Remus' things?

It's alright. He didn't own that much.

_He's not dead, Sirius. Fucking hell._

He doesn’t want the tea. He tips it into the sink, watching it swirl beige against the silver of the basin and disappear. Once it’s drained, he realizes he’s still holding the empty mug, so he drops that into the sink, too, because he can wash it up later, or not. It’s whatever he wants. He must misjudge it though; the height he drops it from or something, because it hits the steel with a heavy thud and a fragment of the handle breaks off.

He could fix that, he knows a spell.

He’ll just throw it away.

It’s the last time they see each other for a very long time.

**Author's Note:**

> soooo uh, that's it! i did the thing i always do, where i read over it once its done and think 'oh lol this whole thing might be garbage', but im posting it anyway aha! i hope you enjoyed it, if you did, let me know! let me know if there's something u'd like to see me write! the comments really make my week, and i have a habit of reading them over and over again sometimes aha. i cant help but write these boys all sad, its a problem :(  
> \- ridi


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